


Bound Affection

by skerb



Series: Laced Into You [3]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: (kinda), Affection, Cuddling, Dacryphilia, Fontcest, Heavy Petting, M/M, Making Out, Mirrors, Multiple Penetration, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay, Overstimulation, Sacrum Lacing, Sans/Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Sensitive bones, Sex Toys, Sexual Content, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), background spicykustard, sacrum play, weird monster customs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:35:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26118106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skerb/pseuds/skerb
Summary: It's Edge's turn to convey to Sans what it means to be thorough, with every nuance of lace play imaginable.
Relationships: Fontcest - Relationship, Kedgeup - Relationship, Papyrus/Sans (Undertale)
Series: Laced Into You [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1897162
Comments: 34
Kudos: 123





	Bound Affection

When Sans comes home from the corner store, there’s a parcel on the coffee table. It seems innocuous enough - a small box with a covering that’s more ornamental than your typical box that’s been thrown throughout the postal system. It’s about the size of a thick phonebook, rectangular and doubled in height. It’s wrapped with ornate paper, the type seen in specialty shops that has just a bit of wrinkle to it to show that it’s handmade.

Normally, Sans wouldn’t pay it any mind. Typically, he’d bustle right on by to watch TV and eat chips like he’d been planning to do. But in place of Sans’ rear, _Edge_ sits in his favourite place on the couch.

As always, Sans’ soul does a funny skip whenever he sees Edge. The lights of his eyes smoulder quietly, control and promise levelled into one hot look that threatens to strip Sans down to the bone.

Something in the air changes with that look. Regrettably, Sans remains clothed. Sans shrugs as though to shift under the weight of Edge’s gaze. Edge lounges on the couch, slouched back into Sans’ spot like he’s staking a claim on it.

“Heya, Edgelord,” he greets as he shuffles his way forward a couple steps. Edge inclines his head, a slight quirk to his teeth like he’s holding back a smile. Sans shuffles the plastic bag of snacks in his hand. “What’s up?”

Even in Red’s absence, the air is always charged between them. Ever since that first night, ever since their following entendres… everything has been heavy with the promise of more.

And here it is. More like it’s all Sans could ever want. He’s not quite sure what he’s going to do with it, but Edge’s smirk quirks a little more with his hesitation. The longer Edge takes to reply, the more a sense of caution settles over Sans, prickling the back of his neck.

Edge probably has something planned. He doesn’t move to uncover it. There’s no way that box is-

“For you,” Edge says, both cutting off and finishing Sans’ mental belabouring. He gestures for added effect, long fingers curling out to wave to the parcel on the coffee table.

Unsurprisingly, it’s difficult to shake the words out of his stupid head to balk. Instead, Sans’ gaze drops to the parcel from Edge’s face, heat settling around his clavicles in a flustered haze. He’s not quite sure how to process it. He opens his mouth out of sheer will to try and say something. Nothing comes out. The blush blooms up a little more, crawling up his throat. Sans closes his mouth again.

He moves somewhat automatically when Edge holds out an arm for him, inviting Sans to join him on the couch. Unable to look away, shell-shocked and caught off-guard by the suddenness of the gift, Sans bumps his shin into the table as he manoeuvres over to sit beside Edge. He can’t quite make it, not when Edge is slouched all over his side of the couch. He’s gonna blame it on unfamiliar territory.

“As you know, I’ve been more than a little secretive in the project that I’ve been working on these past few months,” Edge starts. While this is true, Sans also didn’t bother him about it. His eyes remain glued to the parcel. “Though our traditions differ greatly to yours, I do think that they aren’t so mismatched that you might not know what this is.”

Oh. Is that all. Sans sinks down onto the couch with Edge’s encouraging tug. Unable to tear his eyes away, his brain misfiring like an old beater car, Sans turns his head so Edge knows at least that he’s paying attention.

“My brother has informed me of the state of your lace box.”

“Oh.” Wait, his _what?_

Edge clasps his hands in front of him, cradled over his lap. One of his pointy elbows bumps Sans, a scant reminder of a touch that could go anywhere.

“Is, uh,” Sans starts, and it’s like he’s trying to fish and all that’s coming up are bubbles. “Is this a ‘your universe’ thing?”

Edge gives him a thoughtful look, assessing whether or not Sans is put off by the notion, or simply confused. He decides on the former, as it’s easy to just explain it all like he’s been doing for awhile now. Collars, food, lovers…

“Perhaps,” Edge recants, though there’s no judgement in his tone. “I should clarify, as it doesn’t appear that you’re familiar with the piecework. That is, if you accept.”

As though that was Sans’ cue to wake up and get into gear, a shot of adrenaline courses throughout his body. He reaches forward, moving with Edge as the parcel is brought to his lap. He moves somewhat uselessly, letting the bag of snacks hit the floor between his legs. He’s still flushed and trying not to stammer out a clichéd little _what is it_ like some Hallmark holiday special.

Upon closer inspection, the paper seems to be of high quality, rough-looking yet soft to the touch. There’s a small intricate sigil drawn on the top that incorporates the design in groups of three. The paper is also only barely shrouding the gift from view. It slides up easily, even though Sans’ hands have begun to shake.

The case underneath isn’t what he was expecting. Usually there’s a gift box, not some vividly ornate thing. It smells of lacquer and the warm bite of carved and sanded wood. All its edges have been lovingly sanded, smooth and soft with deep curves.

As Sans pulls the paper off entirely, he can see more of it, more of the colours. Inlays decorate it, flush to its main body like they’ve always belonged together. One is blue, matched too similarly to his innate magic to raise any question of what it symbolises. A deep, rich cherrywood intertwines with it, along with a rusty ochre of mahogany.

It’s not that hard to figure out, but Sans’ brain decides to drop the ball on the whole ‘using words’ thing. He just stares at it, robbed and gifted with so many emotions that he can’t figure out what to express first.

“It’s in all likelihood tremendously obvious,” Edge says, a little warmly. Sans can feel it in his soul. “Such a thing is typically given between lovers. A commemoration, collaboration and celebration of things to come.”

Things to come. Cool. Sans still can’t look at him, but the box feels warm under his fingertips. It’s kind of like the one Edge has. It’s not the creased, worn box that Red’s got, the one he keeps under his bed along with his other toys. Sans has an idea of what might be inside, and a flutter of butterflies startle inside of him.

“The body of the case is hardwood, cherry, which is… apt, considering the bulk of our relationship began with my brother. The blue mahoe, which signifies-” Edge stops, though Sans wishes he would continue pouring those warm explanations over him like addictive praise. “It took time to get a piece that held true to you.”

_It’s him and them._

It’s all three of them, bound as one, so neatly arranged in perfect coils and knots that they really are wrapped up in each other’s lives.

Sans can feel a painfully sincere twist of affection for Edge at the gesture, his throat locking up with a small, wondrous, “Wow.”

There’s a neat ornate tassel made of a shiny string, probably silk. Sans wouldn’t second guess it, rich velvet, dark and inviting him to snap the lid open. Edge seems pleased with how enamoured he is with the box, content to caress its curves with his fingers, to soak up the intent left within its grain. There’s traces of Red in it like he had a hand in it, too. He can feel it.

“Shouldn’t we-” Sans tries again when his voice catches. “Shouldn’t we wait for him to be here?”

Sans catches a glance at Edge’s face. He looks pleased, his eyes hooded like he’s basking in all his acceptance. It’s heavy, intoxicating. Carefully, Sans smooths his fingers over the slick surface of the box again, just to distract himself from leaning forward.

“And be subject to his eyerolls and side commentary on the finer points of rigging and carving?” Edge scoffs, though there’s an air of affection in his tone and, if Sans squints, he can see Edge’s grin behind it all. “No, actually. In his words, it’s ‘my turn’.”

Sans swallows. Oh. That’s good. They’re taking turns. Sharing him. Kinda strange that Red would voluntarily sit this one out, but then again, Sans isn’t sure what to expect from Red most days.

None too eloquently, Sans manages to respond. “I see.”

Edge tilts his head in thinly veiled amusement. “Do you?”

Unable to really budge from his mental hang ups, Sans swallows again to try and clear the sudden knot in his throat. The thought of Edge having him all to himself is something he’s definitely been craving. He wonders if Red somehow picked up on that. “Did he… really say that?”

Edge levels him with a look, but it’s not as though it’s without reason. Sans tends to belabour a lot. Studiously, his eyes fall to Sans’ hands, which have started to tap nervously against the wooden case.

“He knows that it’s important.”

And doesn’t that speak all the world to Sans?

Sans glances back to him, a telltale giveaway. Then he coughs, quietly, and laughs. “That asshole.” There’s no chance of hiding the fondness in his voice, and he flushes all the more when he hears it. Edge’s expression softens. “Ok, I assume you’re gonna nerd out about something, but this is… shit, just really thoughtful?” He decides to play it dumb, though he hesitates. “I dunno what to keep in it besides socks, though.”

There’s a slight tick at Edge’s eye that he can’t quite conceal and Sans grins, flaunting the culture clash for what it is. He also eases back a little as some of the pent-up tension in the air disperses.

“Actually, not as much nerding out as it is a lesson in lacing. It is my understanding that your curiosity was met with my brother’s hasty, on-the-spot demonstration. And apart from the last session, there’s been no real direction. I intend to be thorough.”

Ok, that’s unfair. Sans has only got an inkling of what that means, but it ripples into his soul like a heatwave. Edge being _thorough_ anchors him, drives his mouth to hang open and his throat to tighten.

To stave off the sudden shyness he feels, Sans slowly cracks the lid of the case on his lap. The well-oiled hinges hidden in the lid don’t even creak and the cool tickle of the silky tassel whispers against his fingers. He can practically feel Edge’s anticipation.

The interior is lined with silky soft satin, dark violet to match the tasselled clasp. It’s very dark, highlighting the sparse few items left behind in it like glinting gold. There are a handful of small rounded objects in a tiny, shallow dish, smooth, red and porous. There’s an ornately folded coil of braided cord, deep crimson and bright red to match the brothers’ innate magic. Another hank is a brilliant white, small knobbly textures in flowing waves to make Sans’ imagination run haywire.

Ok, he can play dumb for only so long. Reactively, his sacrum gives a steady throb at the reminder. Yearning to continue, his pubic symphysis gives him a signal too.

“Hoo boy.”

Edge’s voice is so smooch and rich that Sans doesn’t even startle as he stares down into the contents of the case. “It’s… tradition to include a gift with the lace box,” he explains, bright satisfaction in his tone. Sans can’t help the shiver that rolls up his shoulders when Edge leans into his personal space.

“Oh,” Sans says again, intelligently. His face feels very hot. He can kind of detect the sultry intent as he reaches into the box to pick up one of the small round things from the dish. It’s firm and gives under the pressure of his fingers. The knot in his throat is anticipatory when he murmurs, “You gonna show me how?”

Edge’s voice purrs, sending a shockwave of heat down to Sans’ pubis. He bumps his teeth to Sans’ temple, wordlessly inferring _yes._ Helpless for the affection, Sans curls into the touch.

When it comes to Edge, Sans is easy. He lights up for affection and Edge has no issue in testing how far he can tease him. It doesn’t help that on more than one occasion he’s voiced his appreciation for Sans’ reactions, likening them to gifts he can treasure in his soul. Red had scoffed at the sentiments, but his face was oddly flushed and he couldn’t make eye-contact.

Maybe that’s why he’s not here. To give them some privacy, for Edge to indulge his doting kink or whatever Red called it. Sans has no issues with that. His grip trembles around the case on his lap as he pivots to accommodate Edge, yearning towards him as Edge lays a few gentle fingers against his jaw to get him to turn throat.

With the small brush of Edge’s addictive kisses, Sans willingly folds. He’s never been one to put up a fight or play coy when it comes to Edge. It’s all genuine. The thought of having him all to himself is kind of titillating, his soul squeezing nervously with anticipation as Edge slowly robs him of breath. He doesn’t even try, wanting nothing but the taste of him as Edge takes over.

Still, he huffs when Edge carefully pulls away. Sans’ face burns; he’s probably blushing so hard he can probably be seen from space. Edge’s thumb brushes against the ridge of his cheekbone, igniting the spot. Sans is slowly, slowly dying, and he loves it.

“I don’t know.” There’s a hint of a tease to Edge’s voice, like he can’t help himself. Sans stutters, his senses full of him as he leans in more for another kiss. After another that’s much too short, Edge continues, “Do you want me to?”

God, yes. Sans really does. It’s a shame he has to talk, because it’s really not happening. He tries to blink out of his haze, but all Sans does is gently nod like he’s in a drugged stupor.

“You’ll need to hold onto the case, Sans,” Edge chides softly. “Unless you’d like for me to start with the plugs right here?”

Oh boy. Is that what those were? Sans’ gaze drops down to the squishy firm thing between his forefinger and thumb, giving it a bit of a squeeze. His laugh is almost strangled.

“I want,” he tries, but it dies in his throat. It’s hard to say it sometimes. He tries again, slower, his voice low and husky. “I want you to… do what you love.”

When Edge’s thumb grazes down from his cheek to the side of his neck, Sans’ breath stutters again. He silently asks for permission, which Sans immediately grants with another short nod. The air is filled with tension, with covert glances and soft touches threatening to wind Sans up further. And Edge just soaks it in.

“Perhaps the bedroom is better suited for this.” It’s not clear which one Edge means, but Sans isn’t going to get hung up on the details. Hastily, he nods and drops the squishy red plug back into the case.

They move. Sans somehow makes it in front of Edge, putting him at the same height even though he’s a stair or two higher than he is. The case is clutched tightly to his chest, keeping the lid closed as to not lose any of its contents.

Edge kisses him, the spark of arousal hot in his marrow as he plies him, soft and sweet. Sans can’t help the small whimper at the loss when Edge moves up, shielding his back from the landing like he’ll slide down the stairs if he isn’t careful. There’s a hauntingly salacious look in Edge’s eye that Sans feels pour over him like warm honey.

Outside of Edge’s room is where they end up, and Sans’ soul gives a trembling, anticipatory beat. Even from the hallway, Edge’s room is inviting and warm, somewhere Sans wants to be. As much as he wants to curl up against his side most nights, Sans generally leaves it for other times. He doesn’t get much sleep when he’s in Edge’s bed.

Heat continues to scald his face as Edge enters the room, trailing his touch past Sans’ hip in a telltale way. It’s an open invitation and Sans has plenty of time to back out if he wants to. No pressure.

He doesn’t. He wants to see where this goes. Red’s demonstration had been intimate enough - would Edge be gentler?

 _Thorough_ makes its way into Sans’ head, eliciting a shiver in response. He had thought that eight holes were pretty thorough enough… something tells him that Edge doesn’t think so.

His sacrum continues to throb in time with his soul. His breaths quicken when he takes that first step into Edge’s domain, and Sans tries not to melt under that hot gaze. He makes it a few feet into the plush carpeting before he just stops and waits for Edge to come to him.

He does, moving with a grace and careful presence that’s more than deliberate. Sans tries not to give into another shiver, locking the lace box to his chest.

“Are you being coy?” Edge asks, because he’s got some greedy need to force Sans to speak when he’s under his horny, horny spell. He considers him, and Sans looks up in time to see a warm smile fall upon him. It makes Sans’ knees weak. “Are you sure that you would like to do this now?”

Fuck, he’s really gonna make him say it. “Uh.” His face is absolutely burning. “Yeah.” He stops, inhaling nervously. “Just be gentle with me, Edgelord.”

That speaks to his soul, devilish delight creeping up into Edge’s eyes before it’s squashed. Sans’ soul does a traitorously needy thump, so harsh that he’s afraid that Edge might’ve heard it.

He eventually moves towards the bed to meet Edge on the side of it. There’s more than enough room for the two of them, and when Sans sits down, there’s all manner of scents that he detects. Edge keeps a clean room, but it’s all him, the laundry detergent that he uses, the fancy soap he showers with and his own scent, unique to him.

Sans’ head is full of him.

Edge pulls the box from Sans’ hands before he loses his grip on it entirely. It’s far from their first time together, though there’s always been a grinning jackass hanging over their amorous activities, sharing the affection like a touch-starved ferret. There’s no bullshit filter here, which catches Sans off guard.

It’s painfully honest and tempting when Edge murmurs, low as though he fears that anyone in the world other than Sans would hear him, “It helps to be a little aroused.”

Sans swallows thickly, shakily nodding as he accurses his stupid reactions. Yep, the ship’s sailed on that. Check, check, and check.

Still, because his brain is misfiring on all levels, he adds, “Ok,” just going through the motions. He’s staring at Edge’s teeth, hungry for more addictive little kisses, which Edge is all too eager to supply.

This time, Edge’s fingers toy with the end of Sans’ shirt, whispering a tease against the bottom-most side of Sans’ ribs. Sans huffs softly into the kiss, twisting to get more of him. His hands feel numb in his lap, fixed in place while Edge breathes him in. It’s one thing to feel needed, but another thing entirely to be _wanted._ He can very much tell Edge wants all of him.

His magic burns a telltale brightness between his joints, even before this whole thing started, but it’s fierceness is all too apparent now. Sans can feel Edge’s mouth quirk against his, tasting him, moving in slow and sweet. He’s gentle with him, tenderly squeezing Sans’ hip in small pulses. Sans swears he can feel it between his legs.

When Edge gives him a moment, Sans laughs, unable to help himself. He’s breathless by just that amount of making out, revved up and raring to go. He leans forward into Edge’s personal space to return the favour, his hands getting caught between his long fingers, careful and strong.

He could break him if he wanted to, but Edge treasures him like he’s precious. His touch slips down to his thigh, teasing a slow circle like he does to get Sans riled enough. Sans huffs again, then laughs.

“So, uh,” he manages, only sounding slightly strangled. “Lacing… disrupts the magic enough to… that part.”

“The sacrum and anything thereabouts,” Edge confirms, a deep purr to his voice when Sans flexes his fingers into the material of his shorts.

“Can you, uh… tell me how it works?” Sans almost squeaks. He clears his throat, trying to get the knot to move on. He still feels a little choked up. “Or, w.. what these are called-”

Edge leans into him, his touch like a brand. Sans stills, like if he moves, Edge will leave him hanging. He’s still got a hand positioned over the lid of the box, cradling it close to his hip. He’s got a feeling he needs to be straddling Edge’s lap, or Edge needs for him to get up close and personal with his junk, fitted together just as he and Red were.

Sans can’t get any more blue in the face, so he just spaces for a moment. It takes a couple of seconds, but Edge’s hands are warm, spreading heat into his pelvis. Sans can’t help the soft grunt that passes his teeth nor the way his body tenses around the sensation. Edge’s fingers are light but steady, tracing around his hips as he gently teethes Sans’ neck. Sans makes another breathy sound, a quiet “Oh,” when Edge tastes him.

He doesn’t hear it when it’s opened, but Sans figures the kiss to his neck was to distract him from getting nervous when he sees the open box at his side. Dumbly, he raises his hands to shoulder Edge into place, half-grimacing, half-gasping when Edge’s touch roams toward his ischium.

It’s sensitive, magic gathered and kept at bay. Why have a pussy summoned when Sans’ll just be forced to dispel it? It seemed like a waste, even though he was sorely tempted to test Edge’s self-restraint.

It turns out to be more of a test of wills for himself, especially when Edge’s thumb brushes down the line of his pubic symphysis, startling a gasp from Sans’ mouth. He already feels hot. His attention is all over, distracted by keeping his magic at bay.

“The ones that you had picked up before are called ‘thinking of you’,” Edge explains sweetly into his neck. Sans trembles, thinks of the small rounded objects in the dish and almost whimpers. “One or more are inserted into the foramina and expand to fill them. It’s especially suitable for those who are sensitive, as it’s not as harsh as what lacing does. It’s quite pleasant. Would you like to try one?”

Edge says it in such a way that it almost sounds as though he’s offering for Sans to eat from his hand. Nodding slightly, Sans’ face burns when his mind assaults him with pornographic imagery to focus on.

It doesn’t really matter, not with Edge holding onto him and Sans clutching to his arms for dear life. Edge doesn’t even remove his shorts or pull it away, instead rolling one of the small spongy plugs in between his digits with sensual vividness. Sans stares at it, how it slowly expands when Edge stops squeezing it, until he finally rolls it up tight again.

Then he slips it between them, carefully manoeuvring his hand beneath Sans’ clothes as he watches his expression with rapt attentiveness.

Sans’ soul drums up again, anticipating the shock of insertion like his first time, but it doesn’t come. He huffs out a soft moan when Edge’s fingers blindly search the back plain of his sacrum, watching as he intently drinks in all of Sans’ expressions.

Then he feels it. It’s not quite there, but at the same time, it is. Edge’s thumb caps over the spot as a slow blooming pressure pads out the area, pushing against the sensitive inner bones. Sans’ eyes search the space in front of him, eye lights darting as his magic is snuffed out of the foramen, cinched snug and tight.

 _“Oh-”_ he tries again, swallowing hard. That’s not as bad as he thought, but it has a slight discomfort on par with being pinched. It expands a little more, achingly slow, pushing, _pressing,_ throbbing into every curvature that it can sneak into. It’s not very big, but Sans feels it all. His next breath is sharper, higher when Edge gently grazes the tip of his finger against it.

“The idea is to walk around with this, thinking of your lover as you go about your day.” Edge’s gaze smoulders, drinking in every tightened expression reflected in Sans’ eyes. “To the best of your abilities, at any rate. Do you think you can do that for me?”

Ohh, that’s unfair to ask. Sans tries not to whimper again when Edge tests the insertion, gentle flicks reverberating to shock Sans’ tailbone. He can’t help it when he feels like a plucked guitar string. His vision flutters with the magic angrily pulsing around the intrusion.

“I’m,” Sans tries, his femurs trembling. It takes a moment for him to clarify. “I dunno if I c’n even get up like this,” he says pathetically. Then he laughs, because a thought just came to mind. “I _definitely_ know I can’t get it up like this,” he adds with a crazed chuckle.

Edge humours him, but gives Sans a moment to adjust and keeps away from the plug for now. Sans’ mouth hangs open a little with every breath he takes.

“Feels neat,” he mumbles. He thinks he detects the same kind of magic that Red feeds into him during sex, but that can’t be right. This is all Edge.

Edge almost preens, all his attention on him. “Would you like another?”

Sans shivers, a traitorous crawl up his spine from where the plug sits snugly between his second and last foramina. He thinks of another, pushed in lower where it’s tighter, and a knot forms in his throat.

“Wow, yeah,” he can’t help but say. When he gets the courage to look up, Edge’s expression is warm and inviting.

Oh no, that’s not fair.

When Edge leans forward, Sans anticipates him to sneakily touch his hip, but the gentle slide of the second intrusion never comes. Edge kisses him, holding him steady as he carefully slips one side of his hoodie. It tickles down his arm, a sensual friction that echoes somewhere further south. He hums blissfully as strong, careful hands pull his hoodie down enough so it drops to the crooks of his elbows.

Edge’s voice is very soft when he suggests, “I have a mirror for you to see, if you’d prefer.”

Wow, yeah. Sans prefers. He prefers a lot. As he attempts not to speak with too much of a strangled lilt, he nods his consent, because wow, he needed this yesterday. Edge shifts him over, guiding him from Sans’ place half on his lap to the mattress so he can get up.

Sans puts a foot on the floor. His inner foramen buzzes like an irritated bee, humming down to a bare thrum after a couple moments. The magic in his sacrum is wild and aimless as it attempts to fill the void where it’s been punctured, nudging at the plug. It throbs every time it does so, and Sans figures that’s what it means to be reminded of Edge. Just a persistent ache, heady and warm in his soul, in his pelvis.

Edge’s touch drifts from his arm as he goes to his wardrobe, a tantalising tease. It’s only a few steps away but suddenly Edge seems too far. Sans plants another foot down into the plush carpet, sensation rippling up his legs to rest between his thighs. He’s kind of relieved that his magic behaves this way - to form something in front of Edge…. It always makes him more than a little bashful.

Edge returns with a burnished silver handheld mirror. While it sends a shot of nerves through Sans’ soul, it looks dutifully cared for like it had been in Edge’s possession for a long time. Sans swallows the knot in his throat, his eyes never leaving its polished surface as Edge returns to join him on the bed.

He shakes as the mirror exchanges hands. It’s stupid how nervous he is, but Edge takes him with a patience that could turn the stormy waters of the arctic into calm brooks. Sans can’t help the metaphor when Edge plies him with a kiss again, enough to soothe his skittishness and maybe bring out the teasing rogue in him.

Fighting the nerves away, Sans shrugs his hoodie from one of his arms and tugs the zipper the rest of the way down. Edge makes him feel everything that he hadn’t before, some wide-eyed restlessness deep in his soul that wants to be uncovered and bare. He shudders more out of suspense when Edge draws nearer to the centre of the bed, his long legs folded under him as he cradles the lace box in his hands. He’s the perfect picture of allure and sentiment.

Sans sheds his hoodie the rest of the way and lets it drop to the floor next to the bed. He pauses at his waistband, then he decides against it and shuffles up the giant mattress to join Edge. His gaze is warm and hungry, a bit of excitement for what’s to come sitting unbridled in his eyes. Sans wants to curl up and soak it all in.

Edge leans towards him, beckoning for him to come closer. Sans is all too aware of the single point of pressure in his sacrum and how it’s gently brushed by his shorts when he moves. By the time he makes it to Edge’s lap, he can’t help but brush aside the tear that starts at his eye.

“Since it’s your first time, I can impart some knowledge as to the history of such a concept, too,” Edge says, a daring glint in his eyes. Sans anticipates whatever he’s got in store for him, his soul warm and heavy with the desire for more. He keeps the mirror in his hand, clutched tightly just in case Edge wants it back. Urged to move closer by Edge’s strong arms, Sans pivots his body between Edge’s legs so his back is flush with his ribs.

Edge is warm. He’s warmer than warm, spreading heat down Sans’ spine and up into his skull. Sans sinks against him like any other night before, pushing into his lap as much as he can like a cat. As always, there’s a bit of hesitation from Edge before his long arms draw around Sans to hold him close.

“Gonna ease my skittish virgin nerves?” Sans mumbles helplessly. Edge’s hand comes to rest on his chest, right over his soul. Oh, that’s not fair, Sans thinks. He can almost feel his soul hammer against Edge’s fingers and the light growl in Edge’s throat. “You can boss me around a little. I won’t put up too much of a fight.”

“Good to know.”

Edge’s arms tighten around him a fraction more, soothing away some of Sans’ hesitation. The plug’s sensation is more like a background throb now, something he can tune out. He bets if he was made to walk around, it’d start to thrum up again. He isn’t sure if he’s ready for that.

What he is ready for is the way Edge’s hand creeps down to take his own. Edge’s pointy-ass jaw is cradled into the crook of Sans’ neck and he can feel Edge’s hot breath gust across his jaw.

Reflectively, all the fight is blown out of Sans’ sails as his hands sink down to grip at his waistband. His libido is four-thousand percent ok with this progression. He almost loses the mirror in the process, trying to be helpful as Edge helps him out of his pants. It doesn’t work as well as he’s wanting to.

Probably so it doesn’t get damaged in the exchange, Edge takes the mirror from him. It’s awkward to slip his shorts down at this angle, but Sans gets up to his knees to better facilitate their removal. Once down, Edge bodily moves him and holds Sans against his chest. Sans makes some kind of half-indignant, half-aroused noise low in his throat and cinches his knees together in some obscure gesture of modesty.

He can’t help but grin all the while. His pelvis is flushed at the joints, brightest at the intrusion. As though it’s to get Sans to cooperate, Edge gently traces a soft circle around the spot, watching as Sans’ legs jerk out and he shouts. Then, very aware of how loud that was, Sans covers his mouth.

“Jeez, w.. warn a guy, will ya?” he huffs, though he doesn’t squirm when Edge tosses the shorts into the same heap on the floor as his hoodie.

“Just a little tactile education,” Edge calmly notes. “This vantage point is best. You can hold the mirror while I work, and I will explain as I demonstrate.”

Edge brings his hand around again as Sans settles down onto his tender coccyx, nestled in the crux of Edge’s lap. His eyes immediately flit down when he sees the glint of silver, that overly ornate thing Edge has probably treasured for years. When Sans sees the flush of his face as his own expression is reflected back at him, there’s something bashful at the back of his mind. Seeing the colour creep up his neck, Sans pushes away when Edge nestles next to him.

It’s a nice picture. Bashfully, and mostly because of the angle, Sans dips his head into where Edge has his face planted and awkwardly grins. “Dude.”

“It isn’t far from a lovely sight,” Edge considers thoughtfully. His words are covert as though if anyone else heard them, they’d both be dead on sight. “But it’s far grander than anything I’ve ever seen.”

Sans sees with traitorous affection the way blush scalds up his throat from under his collar. He glances away from the mirror like it’ll burn him, holding his hands to the arm around his waist. He doesn’t know what to say.

So instead of anything heartfelt or romantical like Edge does, he just whimpers, “Oh.”

“An oft-heard and often mocked flirt from the Old Kingdom,” Edge says after a pause. When Sans peeks at the mirror, there’s a slight dusting of rose on his cheekbones.

Sans still has butterflies, though. “Is that why you’re biding your time?”

“Of course not.”

“Nervous,” Sans mumbles, reaching for the mirror. He can’t help but direct his fondness at its polished surface. “You can’t hide it from me.”

Even with Edge at his back, his expression is calculated, though the hint of blush remains. Edge isn’t much different than his brother, though he hides it well. There are similarities that Sans can pinpoint between them, right down to the colour of their magic. Though they feign attraction and poke at it, Edge definitely holds a more honest approach to his feelings. Sans likes it. But he also likes the square-dance way he and Red tiptoe around, too.

“Perhaps.”

Sans’ grin gets sly, but he’s caught a little off guard when Edge pivots the mirror down so the ornate handle is pointing ceilingward. It’s also directed at his flushed pubis, which makes Sans’ face heat up. He tries not to stammer too hard when he flicks a glance over his shoulder without turning his head. He’s not too successful with either.

“Uh…”

Edge manoeuvres Sans with his other arm, taking each of his hands one at a time to situate them where he wants them. Sans manages not to lock his knees together like he wants to, but he plants the soles of his feet together, his soul hammering hard. It makes a neat little circle around their playground. And by their playground he means his junk, he guesses.

“Plugs were introduced with the advent of the Core,” Edge explains quietly, reverent as he gently circles the protrusion in Sans’ foramen.

Sans huffs out a quiet laugh at the historian tone, hell, even tries to follow the story with Edge into that territory. Thanks to some distracting touches, some of Sans’ wires are crossed in the middle of Edge’s explanation. Sans groans, his legs starting to tremble when Edge glides his fingers down, then up the length of his coccyx.

“The new materials allowed for more sensuality, less harsh tugging-” Achingly, Sans’ pubic symphysis throbs at the word. “-and friction and with it, less injuries. Though injury is ultimately very rare.” Thoughtfully, Edge pauses. “If you would like for me to stop, simply tell me ‘stop’.”

Sans hisses softly when Edge lingers on the upper foramina, pivoting the mirror’s angle to see his teasing. He can’t help but nod at Edge’s instruction, sinking back into his body at an odd angle.

Edge’s hand goes out of view, but Sans is still able to move the mirror around to see what he’s doing. The lace box is to their immediate left, though its contents are out of view. Edge makes a point to bring it forward, concealing another plug in his palm.

Sans nonetheless feels anticipation creep up on him. While it hadn’t been nearly as intense as lacing, he had only made it as far as three penetrations before coming so hard he saw stars. Remembering how gentle Red was with him that way, Sans makes a small noise in his throat.

“With the Core, we were able to manufact materials that were easier on the body, on bone in particular. Different monsters became industrious, experimenting with porous substances that held Intent just to see what it would do.”

Sans feels a little hazy with the explanation, but he nods to show that he’s paying attention, even though Edge’s moving hand has him trembling. His breaths calm as he watches long fingertips search down his spinal column, mapping out where potential holes can be filled.

His soul startles when Edge thumbs the upper-most foramen, considering it at length with the tip of his finger. Sans sucks in sharply, staring wide-eyed as Edge eventually ventures down a little more, leaving the teased bone flushed. Sans’ fingers flex against the mirror’s frame, trying to hold it steady as his magic attempts to plunge into the void of his pelvis.

“Cool,” Sans mumbles, because anything else just seems wholly stupid to say. He shifts back to feel Edge pressed against his spine, to maybe get him to explore a little more. He huffs out and nearly drops the mirror in surprise when Edge rolls the little red plug between his fingers in preparation. “O-oh, ok-”

“Ready?” Edge whispers against the side of his skull.

Shakily, Sans nods. His eyes fixate on the spot Edge carefully caresses, where he aims to penetrate. Sans’ soul jolts, the bone throbbing when Edge tips it into the free space just above his tailbone. It’s one of the tighter foramina, small, snug and burning sweetly. Sans’ voice cracks as it gradually fills out, his eyes glued to the way Edge keeps it in place.

It thrums. There’s definitely intent driven into the little red orb, heat and pleasure encompassing the spot. With every throb that dips down and throughout the bone, Sans’ breaths draw in more raggedly, his face beaming and hot.

“Oh,” he whispers, then whimpers when it gradually fills him up, pressing outward against the sensitive bone. _“Oh…”_

“Can you feel him?” Edge mutters, a high drug pumped directly into Sans’ soul. “He made these specifically for you.”

Sans closes his eyes, curling his toes, a punched-out sound locked in his throat. When Edge moves again, he doesn’t peek, but it gets harder to remain cool and collected.

“Made…”

Mercilessly, Edge continues, “He helped in more ways than you’d think. For instance, he’s crafted these plugs and helped me weave the cords for your own laces…”

Either brutally honest or devastatingly horny, Sans nearly gasps out, “I want it.” He feels so overwhelmed, too desperate in such a short amount of time. His soul thrums an even tempo, fed intent like it’s starving. His pubic symphysis echoes the pulse, drinking it in as the little plug expands to fill everything all at once.

He wants everything that they’ll give him. Red isn’t here, but he certainly made sure that he could take part. Chances are he’ll accept it sans gratis (heh), trusting Red and Edge until his last breath.

It’s unwittingly devotional.

He catches a glance of himself in the mirror when he tries to relax, opening his eyes for a bit of reprieve. He looks too desperate, unwound after so little time. The echo of Red’s intent pulses dully along his coccyx, steady bursts that make Sans start to pant.

Edge is content to continue on while Sans catches a second wind. When Sans sees the glowing sheen of silk out of the corner of his eye, he all but forgets that he’s holding the mirror. He draws up a leg to brace himself, remembering the full, penetrating thrust of the aglet into him like it was an extension of Red’s cock.

He can’t speak.

The cord is pretty, though. Edge is having a good time describing what it is to him. Something about tassels, galloons, fourteenth century passementières and the advocates for physiology mostly concerning skeletons. It doesn’t really matter. Sans tries his best to pay attention, but he quickly loses focus. He stares at the crimson and maroon cord slowly being unwound by Edge’s careful, steady hands.

Hoo boy.

It’s all coming back to him. He hadn’t lasted so long. He was barely coherent near the end, begging and crying as Red dutifully got him to shove the last of the lacing in. The bedspread really wasn’t the same after that. He had back pain for weeks. On some nights, Sans thinks he can still feel all the ribbon there.

Anxious, Sans starts to shake. He doesn’t mean to, it’s just sort of a defense mechanism at this point. He doesn’t look to Edge in the mirror; he’s bound to notice how tense and quiet he’s gotten. The rich history of the Old Kingdom will have to wait until after Sans’ little freak-out over how good he’s gonna feel.

“Sans,” Edge says, and Sans can feel it slip down his spine. He shivers, forcing himself to grin, to tighten his grip on the mirror’s frame.

“Yeah, babe.”

“Would you like for me to stop?” He’s very serious. Sans knows he cares too much to gamble with him.

“Nah. It’s just butterflies,” Sans mumbles, his voice trembling. He tries to sound convincing. “They’re very active.”

Edge pauses and lays the cord down for now. He’s gotta know that Sans isn’t used to the urging force he normally commands. Sans is a lot more passive with Edge than he is with Red. For starters, he can’t get away with reversing their positions. Edge commands all the power in the bedroom unless Sans wants to be cheeky.

Not this time, though. Sans huffs down at the mirror pointed between his legs, trying to ignore the way his pubis throbs and flushes with want. Silk has an unearthly glow to it, not like magic does, but like it’s made from the rays of the sun. Having it in his lovers’ colours makes it look blood red like their combined magic.

“I-in fact,” Sans continues as he stares at it, swallowing what little pride he’s got left to ask for a kiss, “they’re fighting. I need a shot of courage.”

Edge wordlessly cocks a brow but shifts his weight behind him. Thinking that he had irreversibly fucked over his chances with Edge for intimacy, Sans whirls around, distraught, ready to protest that no, he’s fine, just let him have time-

And Edge just gently cups his skull. Sans starts when he brings him closer, turning his face to better kiss him. He’s flush to Edge’s chest, the warm thrum of his magic beating against his back, intoxicating all Sans’ senses. He hums, the kickstart to his soul hazy and hot. He feels Edge’s other hand push lower, his pubis hot to the touch when his fingers settle there.

There we go. When Edge begins to circle his pubic symphysis like a clit, Sans tenses against him, but a relieved breath huffs out of him. He groans softly as Edge thumbs the side of his neck, kissing him slow, fingering his pelvis with his long fingers. His voice catches with the measured glide, soaking up the way Edge makes him feel.

It diverts up, because of course it does. Sans’ soul continues to filter in the magic, building up where it can’t usually. He groans again, spreading his legs for Edge to gain access to everything he wants, his voice breaking just on the cusp of orgasm.

Edge isn’t mean. He doesn’t stop, but he slows down. Sans protests, thumping his head on Edge’s sternum, white pips of light blotting around his vision like drunken starfish. His legs twitch every time Edge glides his fingers up, swirling at the apex of his ischiums, only to move down again. His plugged foramina throb in time.

“Feels good,” he mumbles, drunk on sensation. His leg bumps into Edge’s knee from where he’s being straddled. Suddenly, it strikes him as very important that Edge get all the space he needs, so he pulls Edge’s leg over to him and hooks his own over it. Edge speeds up his strokes, little taps to keep Sans gasping, small curses panting from between his clenched teeth. “Edge-”

He slows again, making a needy groan escape from Sans’ throat. His femurs twitch, his soul spreading warmth all down his spinal column. He’s sensitive beyond words, trapped in a bubble of ecstasy he’s got no mind to want to escape from. He can feel Edge’s heavy breaths against him, excited to be touching him. He pushes back into him, lifting his hips as best as he’s able to. Just a little more…

Oh, Edge is talking again. Sans catches a bite or two of information, blurred around the edges like a sweet dream. Yellow means unwavering loyalty. Blue, time-honoured indulgence. Red, undying devotion and passion. Sans’ mind stutters on that for a moment. It seems to take up the span of multiple moments as Edge speaks, outlining fabrics and soft silks and what they mean.

Suddenly, the powdery blue cord Red had first selected for him is a lot more intimate than simply being soft and careful. Sans flushes, the hidden meanings welling up in his chest. Honour, reverie, a dream for the future. Soft aglets, care and comfort, love, servitude.

He whimpers.

Soft yellow satin with gold aglets, ornate and beautiful. Something for Edge, doting, patience, a lick of sweetness. Aglets, gold, decorative, like royalty, someone to be respected.

Oh no, that was telling a lot, wasn’t it?

His magic rushes down to plunge around Edge’s hand, breaking when there’s nothing to anchor on. Sans whimpers again, wanting everything, anxious for more.

“-and crimson, scarlet,” Edge continues, the last nails in the coffin. “Ours, passion, protection, devotion, lovers. We chose no aglets. It means honesty, bare emotions, the care of working on you with our own hands.”

Sans shudders out a soft moan like Edge is feeding him his fingers instead.

“Since the colours represent us individually, it also symbolises a resplendent bond,” Edge murmurs, leaning over him. “Wrapped up together… I think you’d suit it perfectly.”

Sans nods, his eyes half-focused on the mirror. It’s shaking. Or rather, his hands are shaking, trying to keep hold of the handle and frame so Edge can see where he’s touching. He dare not tilt it up and see the look in Edge’s eyes as he comes apart. Instead, Sans stares at the glint of warm red to his left, the glowing small tangle of cord that he craves to be woven into him more and more.

He makes a small noise in his throat, inviting Edge to peer over his shoulder. “I want it,” he tries again, because he doesn’t think he’ll last otherwise. His voice is tight and raspy, thick when he swallows another moan of protest when Edge withdraws his touch from his throbbing pubic symphysis. “Please..?”

Indulgently, Edge sighs out against Sans’ head. It sends a shock wave of heat down Sans’ back as he reaches for the skein, all sultry promise in Edge’s voice when he agrees.

“I think you’ve been patient enough. Very good.” Yeah, Edge isn’t playing fair. Sans’ soul gives a pathetic, yearning squeeze. “Hold the mirror steady, love.”

For a soul-stopping moment, Edge finds and brings both ends of the red cord close like he means to drive it into him at once. He holds his breath and grips the mirror tightly, unable to look away. The angle’s a bit off, but Edge keeps him still, resting a hand on Sans’ thigh with a brief caress.

Then he goes in. It’s not the predatory jerk of the ribbon like Red had done. Edge is used to being careful with him, using his hands to glide and tease. Already wound up past eleven by his touch, Sans exhales in a sudden gasp when Edge’s fingers meet with the second row of holes.

“It’s alright, Sans,” Edge soothes. He hitches Sans’ left leg over his knee, spreading him open. He’s kept that way by his legs, and although Sans doesn’t seem particularly adverse to it, he still shudders. “I’ll take good care of you.”

Sans is so incredibly turned on by what Edge murmurs to him. His vision is bright and hazy when he watches as one of the cord’s ends is guided towards his sacrum. He can’t look away, not when those long legs keep him pinned. He’s into it, kept in place where Edge wants him.

 _Edge wants him._ He wants to do this. He huffs out a soft breath, redoubling his grip on the mirror’s frame. He focuses on Edge’s hands, flicking his gaze from the mirror and back again.

He feels the hot tickle of the blunt end of the cord. He doesn’t look away, but his eyes flick up, out of focus as its fabric smooths through the tight space. He grunts, his hips twitching as Edge expertly draws it through. He thinks he feels it somewhere else - starting in his ankles, shivering up his spine like sensual fingertips. His groan cracks into a sharper register, his back arching against Edge’s body. The cord plunges through, spiking through his magic. He blisses out, raw pleasure thrumming into him like a live wire.

Intent fuzzes into his marrow, sinking down into his core. He croons softly, a light sheen of sweat starting to bead up on his bones. He tries to lift his hips up, to get Edge to tug tightly, to slink it all the way through. He’s so close. The cord feels alive with Red and Edge’s magic.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his grin crooked. He leans forward, only to snap back when Edge curls his hand to wind the cord around his palm. It pulls through Sans’ sacrum in a long draw, leading it in a smooth ache. Sans’ breaths pick up, his chest pounding. It feels like too much.

Just when he thinks he’ll break, the winding stops. He’s shaking, whimpering uncontrollably, soft sounds carelessly tumbling out of him. Edge soothes him by pressing gentle kisses to his exposed neck, by caressing his trembling hips.

“There you are,” Edge says, his voice trapped in Sans’ head when he leans forward. Sans barely registers that he’s fixing the angle of the mirror in his hands. Somehow, he’s managed to hang on, tilting it up in his struggle to remain steady. “You’re very sensitive, aren’t you?”

Sans makes a low noise in his throat, sucker-punched by Edge’s observations. He tries to shift his rear into the heat of Edge’s magic. He’s pretty sure he can feel the firmness of his cock when he leans back, but he can’t make a better angle for him. As it stands, Edge is content to play with him, just as Red was.

It feels good. It feels _really good,_ so much that Sans doesn’t think he’ll be able to control himself when Edge continues. He’ll be rendered into a puddle of bone, blissed out on endorphins for as long as Edge’ll hold him. He presses into him again when Edge reaches behind him, warm fingertips searching below. One in the front and one in the back, equilibrium of the two facets of the universe.

Sans huffs out a deranged laugh. “Yeah,” he replies, a little late. “And you’re r.. really good with your hands.”

He can practically feel the answering purr behind him, full of want. Sans sinks back as best as he’s able to, swallowing the knot that’s returned. His arms kind of ache from holding the mirror at this angle. “One more..?”

Edge hums and nods against him, pockets of bubbly affection nudged into his poor soul. Sans tries to watch again, but the view from behind is obscured by bone. He tries his best, anticipation riding him and forcing him to keep his pelvis steady despite how much he wants to squirm.

Holding himself steady has never been such a chore. Sweat trickles down his ribs, sticking to his shirt. He wants to hold onto Edge’s thighs, bracketing him in. He can very nearly see it when Edge considers the next hole to be filled, tension sliding into Sans’ back when he feels it start.

It’s both hot and cold, the intent slipping through the smooth fibres to permeate the spot.

He makes the mistake of tilting the mirror up a little more, just to take a peek at Edge’s face. Poorly calculated; it’s just as the cord’s tip pushes in and Sans cries out. He sees the smirk play at the corner of Edge’s mouth, sees and feels the way he savours his reaction. He’s loving this as much as Sans is.

 _Oh,_ that does funny things to Sans’ head. Again, his knees attempt to lock together when Edge carefully spools it through. He can’t even focus on where it is within his pelvis, just curling, coaxing, throbbing in tandem with his soulbeats.

“Oh, no,” he mumbles, fighting to hold on for just a little longer. His fingertips scratch against the ornate mirror’s handle and frame. “Oh, no, _no, nooo…”_

He’s going to come. He’s gonna come and he doesn’t want to yet, his head lolling back against Edge’s chest. His toes curl as he’s subjected to the slow wind, the gradual grind within his bones, every subtle jitter of every nub the brothers created together along the core of the thread.

He’s nearly there, but Edge stops. Sans feels like he’s dangling off the tip of a sinking iceberg, one last slide until he plunges in deep. His soul is so hot and heavy that it’s a wonder it hasn’t sank down into his pelvis for relief yet. His entire body is alive, misfiring signals as he tries not to come apart.

“No?”

Edge sounds concerned. A jab of anxiety launches itself into Sans’ psyche, hot and sweet like freshly spun sugar. He doesn’t want this to be over so soon.

“No,” he almost warbles. His hips jerk where the cord is drawn taught behind his sacrum, its construction imbued with Edge’s body heat. “Don’t wanna come yet… I wanna keep going,” he pleads, his voice heavy with arousal.

An intense visceral pleasure sparks in Edge’s eyes.

Oh, ok, Sans thinks. He’s doomed himself.

“Count to three,” Edge says, though he waits for Sans to calm. He’s still shaking, still quivering under impending orgasm like he’ll fly apart if he succumbs to it. “Slowly.”

Sans nods, his eyes blown as his gaze settles on Edge’s hands again. He twists the cord lithely between his digits, the movement as pornographic as it is sensual. Sans’ soul imitates the rolling wave of Edge’s movements, his breaths caught on stuttered, sharp gasps.

“One,” he mumbles, and he breathes out on a high-pitched whine when Edge’s thumb braces against his hip. Everything feels hot to the touch. “T-two-” How many of his foramina are filled again? Sans wasn’t keeping track. He tries to count them between Edge’s fingers, but he thinks he’s part way there. They’re half way done. “Th.. three, _hnn-”_

He’s not sure what that accomplished, though he feels a bit more stable. Edge caresses his face with his pointy cheek, nuzzling against him affectionately.

“Good,” he affirms. It shoots right through Sans’ brain. “You’ve lasted so long… and you’d like for me to keep going?” Edge’s voice ripples throughout Sans’ body, branding him as his. “You’d make that a treat. I’d love that.”

 _Love that._ Love _him._ Sans can’t help the shaky sigh that escapes him when Edge’s teeth find his neck. He nods slightly and presses up into Edge’s touch, his vertebrae tingling where Edge kisses him. He wants it. He wants it all.

When Edge prepares him for the next penetration, Sans is slack against him. His mind floats along on invisible strings. It ties in too close to pleasure to be painful, and Edge is cautious to make sure he listens so Sans doesn’t get too close.

After another two foramina are filled and the lacing is drawn snug to his tailbone, Sans gasps out for mercy. In fact, he digs his heels in, snugging his legs up to Edge’s knees like he means to crack him open from the sheer force of orgasm.

“F… _agh-!!”_

Edge slackens the cord again and soothes down Sans’ ribs with his free hand. Every foramen is taken up by either plugs or the intricate lacing he’s done. Sans thinks it looks a bit like a bow, drawn up in the middle to tie all the threads together from each side. He can’t speak, but he murmurs something nonsensical against Edge’s chest like he’ll save him the torment.

The mirror, much to his disappointment, is as heavy as lead in his hands. He sees the two blots of red in his sacrum like blood, highlighting the two holes in Edge’s design. It’d be perfect, if not for them.

“I can push them out. They’ll be very sensitive,” Edge breathes against his neck, and Sans’ cheeks burn when his brain automatically fills in _you’ll come, you’re so close._ Sans answers with a wounded noise. His legs tremble intermittently with every precisely uttered word, just trying to hold on.

He’s nearly blinded. His vision clears but it’s only because the tears stream down from his eyes. The sounds that rasp from his throat are ragged and pathetic, but he pleads. He _yearns._

Edge takes it as a go. His touch is very warm, mapping out the small ridges and dips in Sans’ bones. He tips up the mirror in Sans’ hands just as his grip fails. It’s elegant in a way, like he’s surveying for beauty. Sans lets his hands slip down to cradle his ischiums, the strength waning from his arms.

Sans would scoff if it didn’t mean losing track of Edge’s fingers. They’re nimble and careful, finding the lowermost plug. The brush against the nub stings a little when it’s pinched, the foamy expanse pushing out against bone. Sans grunts out a protest, though for what, he doesn’t know.

Edge holds the mirror in a way that shows both the inner plain of his tailbone and the fat drops of silver leaking from under his rib cage. It’s enough to get his magic flowing again, or at least until there’s a distinct pressure near the bottom of his coccyx. Sans hisses out, using Edge’s thighs as leverage as Edge rolls the plug out of the sensitive foramina, the bone thrumming like a tender welt.

The shift in temperature is almost enough. When Sans looks down to the small red orb on the sheet in front of them, it looks too small. It had felt much larger, filling him up. He almost sobs when Edge gently caresses the freshly unburdened hole with his thumb.

“Sensitive, isn’t it?”

Sans nods, because that’s all he can do. He swallows hard, harsh little moans dragging out as he turns his head down to inspect the area. The polished surface of the mirror gleams, a few specks of silver dotting its surface. Not enough to say that he had really come, but enough to show just how riled up he was.

It’s easy for Sans to relax back, small tremors whittling down his body as he feels Edge move behind him. He’s strong, supporting him, curling his fingers possessively around the freshly freed hole in his sacrum. His legs tremble, trying to be good, to stay patient.

He doesn’t know why he’s doing it. Edge’s praise had him all at once, sending him straight for the stars. He hums pleasantly when his fingertips brush against the other plug.

“I have one more skein to introduce to you,” Edge says, his tone as secretive as it is inviting. “I’m not going to lace you with it; that’s not what it’s for. But I believe you’ll be satisfied with the results.”

Sans makes some kind of noise in his throat, half-blissed out, half-aware what ‘satisfied’ truly means in Edge’s mind. He’s going to be rendered into a full wreck, which is appealing as it is slightly terrifying.

Still, because he hasn’t quite gotten off yet, Sans gulps, making a nonsensical noise of complaint.

“Soon,” Edge reassures him, and the promise lights Sans up from the inside. He waits patiently as Edge’s fingertips lightly rake up his thigh, curling in to cup Sans’ pubic symphysis with his long fingers. “Hold on a little longer for me?”

That does unfair things to Sans’ brain. As much as he calls Red a dirty cheater, Edge doesn’t play fair either. He almost sobs, the thickening magic wanting to form something tight and ready for him, but nothing comes of it. Sans’ magic filters upward to overload his soul, wanting release somewhere else.

“Can’t-” he says, almost begging. Edge mercifully takes his hand away, but he’s doing something with his other. Sans is either going to come or die in a very shameful way.

Edge has a mean streak. He breathes heavily next to Sans’ acoustic meatus, playing on his overloaded senses as he unwinds a second cord. It’s as white as snow, so brilliant that it seems untouched by anyone’s hand. Edge is right - it doesn’t look suitable for lacing, Sans thinks in a daze. There are too many lumps.

Lumps. Oh no - or oh yes? Sans can’t decide, but he does see the way Edge holds out the cord for him to assess its value or to drink in what it would do to him. Sans just exhales hotly, nervous and eager all at once. The bumps are uniform, smaller on one side of the ridges that end with an abruptness. Sans’ mind tries to take over and imagine how that would feel in his sacrum.

“May I?” Edge asks, like Sans can tell him no. Sans tries to brace himself as Edge manoeuvres him into an easier position, one that isn’t as terrible on his back. The back of his tailbone brushes against Edge’s hidden cock and it sends a thrill and a sharp whimper through the air. “There, there,” Edge gently soothes, his voice so soft that it betrays his namesake. “We’ll take it slow.”

As the mirror is set aside, Sans blindly anticipates what Edge does as tears streak down his cheeks. He tries not to move too much, aching for just enough friction to set him off. Instead, both of Edge’s hands come into view as he hunches over Sans’ shoulders.

He should feel trapped, but Sans feels secure, not about to fly apart as he thought he was. Edge lets him relax, pressing soft kisses to Sans’ neck, parting his teeth just a little to touch the tip of his tongue to Sans’ throat.

“Ok,” Sans breathes out softly. The bumpy white cord lies between his legs, snared around Edge’s long fingers like thick webbing. “Ready.”

Edge chuckles and Sans can feel his smirk against his neck. He leans forward a little more, perhaps just to fuck with him, but Sans’ breath hitches anyway.

“For the record,” Edge murmurs as he moves in closer to Sans’ pelvis with the knobbly cord, “white is for ‘purity’.”

Sans can’t help but scoff lightly, but he grins despite himself. He’s far from pure, but he supposes that from Edge’s perspective, he might as well be a goddamn virgin.

“Purity… simply because there is nothing more than pure sensory input. New things, experiences, the first bite of something you’ve never tasted before,” he continues, and sudden dawning comes over Sans, a fresh wave of want, nerves and fear. He tilts his hips up a little when Edge moves to thumb down, quivering as he waits.

Immediately, Sans makes a soft noise when the long smooth tip is introduced to the one free space left. It feels raw and open, throbbing in time to the beat of his soul. Edge pulls it a short way through, lining up the first bump with the entrance to Sans’ foramen as Sans writhes and suddenly grabs onto Edge’s wrist. His shout is a lot higher than normally, jerked from him suddenly when Edge begins to pull.

It’s slow. It feels soft, fuller and deep. There’s no way for hard bone to expand, but it feels like he’s stretched open, split around something so intimately connected with Edge’s body. He groans out fully, digging his fingers into Edge’s thigh and wrist as tears slip down his face.

It feels _good._

It comes in slow, long waves like the sway of Edge’s hips rocking against him. The sensation laps at his magic, frustratingly tender. The material is soft, the inner bead of the cord soft and pliant.

It’s like he’s being fucked.

He whimpers out when that thought comes to mind, a fresh surge of pleasure coiling around the spot. His hips twitch as the bead slowly exits the other side of where it’s penetrated, a soft _pop_ that echoes up his spine as Edge gives an approving chuckle.

His soul drips lazy patters of hot fluid. They don’t land anywhere in Sans’ pelvis, so he figures that Edge’s hands have caught them as he dutifully continues to drive him crazy. Sans’ voice reaches a whole new octave when the second bead is gradually pulled through. Then the next, continuing on in a pattern that imitates the walls of his cunt fluttering with every progressive thrust.

He can’t hold out. It’s too much. Sans tries to stave off the pathetically needy groans that pass his teeth as he digs the back of his head into Edge’s shoulder, ready to twist off his lap in a spasm of pure bliss. Everything is hot and wet, coating the insides of his ribs as stars hover around his vision like soporific tides. The bumps throb like a wave, pumping him full only to leave him empty again and again…

He hears Edge’s voice, and it’s like everything snaps at once. His spine bows and his legs quiver, a splash of silver wetting his shirt as Sans comes hard, rippling and rolling throughout his body like a long cascade. His voice breaks when Edge’s fingers briefly graze the hot line of his pubis, pushing him far enough over the line of sensitivity to make him shriek.

When it finally dies down, he’s a mess. Sans can barely put two and two together, his chest tight but sated, his tailbone thrumming dully like a pulse. His breaths only catch just a little when he realises that the continued careful drags of cording through his foramina are to take it out again. He tries not to groan too much, his back aching and his voice raw as Sans slinks up close to Edge’s body to escape.

He barely has the strength to even do that. His body just uselessly sags when all of the crimson cord is pulled delicately from his body, glinting in the soft light like rich velvet. Sans eyes it, exhausted, trembling. He tries to stop. It doesn’t work. Edge just gently murmurs to him that it’s alright, he can relax now. He did very well, doing exactly what Edge wanted. The praise washes over Sans in steady beats and he barely notices the raw pop when the last plug is finally plucked from his sacrum.

It throbs, though. It takes awhile for Sans to register that he can’t stop shaking, and that Edge has gotten up to manoeuvre him to the bed himself. Gradually, like he’ll break, Sans’ arms are lifted up, gently pushed through the holes of his sleeves. The soaked shirt is lifted from him, leaving him entirely bare. The wet cloth returns, hot to the point of just being hot enough, making Sans sigh out.

Then there are warm blankets involved, probably the ones parked under Edge’s ass the entire session. Either that, or it’s a heated blanket. Everything feels fuzzy and comfortable. Safe, even.

The endorphins run high, easing Sans’ earlier tension to something like calm reverie. When Edge returns after briefly parting, Sans curls up against his hip, his arms lax and heavy, everything from his waist down warm and wet. Edge simply went to get a cloth to wipe him down with, doing so with careful precision. The warmth of the water is almost piping hot, dragging a residual moan from Sans’ overclocked nervous system.

When he’s done, Sans blindly searches Edge’s leg, fumbling against the edgy worn jeans and patches to find his fly. Edge stops him and instead slides down to curl up next to him. Sans huffs out a sigh in protest, but he doesn’t have enough brain cells handy to bounce a rebuttal against the expression Edge is armed with.

He’s warm. Happy. The happiest he’s seen Edge in a long time. Not to say that Edge hasn’t been happy - he just expresses it differently. But this deep and gratified look that makes Sans feel appreciated and wondered has butterflies kicking up in his soul again.

Very quietly, he rasps, “Butterflies are actin’ up again.”

Edge smiles a little more, warm and fuzzy affection springing up again within Sans’ soul when he moves forward and puts an arm around Sans to keep him near. Like it’ll scare away potential insect infestations, Edge silently moves in as close as he can get and presses his teeth to Sans’, instilling kisses to sate Sans’ worries.

It proves to be a good deterrent. Sans’ grin reaches his sleepy eyes as he slides an arm around Edge’s waist to keep there. He’s comfortable like this. Warm. Easy on the eyes, even if Edge wasn’t easy on his hips.

And Sans wouldn’t change it for the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [Ms_Id](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_Id/pseuds/Ms_Id) for betaing this for me!! ♥
> 
> Not seen: Edge and Red totally weaving the cord used on Sans like friendship bracelets. :D
> 
> Ravvi on pillowfort drew Sans all laced up and Edge holding him!!! [click here!!](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/1700154)


End file.
